


Peter’s Fandom Wears Glasses

by Yung_Mofftiss (OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink)



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/Yung_Mofftiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia’s in a Starfleet Duty Jumpsuit and glasses. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peter’s Fandom Wears Glasses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lulebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulebell/gifts).



Olivia pulls at the top half of her jumpsuit, nervously attempting to straighten the incredibly tight costume. Peter had told her it was the “Starfleet Duty Jumpsuit” and while the goldenrod and black polyester looks admittedly good on her, it's just so foreign to her that she can't wrap her mind around the sight of herself wearing something other than a pantsuit. Her long blond hair has been pulled back into a tight and orderly bun at the nape of her neck and yes, even she has to admit that it’s all entirely professional looking, despite the fact that it’s a costume.

Damn Peter Bishop for convincing her that this was a logical way for staking out Greyson, who would be appearing at a Star Trek convention later this morning.

She sits down at her desk, trying to ignore the smell of over-seeped coffee that’s permeated every inch of the lab including her back office; Walter gone crazy with French Hazelnut in an Erlenmeyer flask and forgot about it during nap. Her hands mindlessly toy with a cheap pen, trying to find the drive to work on the papers and files neatly stacked in random places on the desktop.

“Glasses?”

She glances up to see Peter standing in the doorway of the office.

She gives him a half smile as he finds his way towards her desk. “My eyes are a little tired and I don't want to spend the entire day squinting.”

He lifts a second case and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, those are my backup pair.”

He pulls them out of their case and unfolds them. “I want to see how messed up your eyes are.”

“Not terribly,” she insists a little defensively as he puts them on.

He stands there and she watches his eyes squint and widen and squint again behind the lenses. “Things are a little blurry.”

“You actually look...” she starts but stops herself a little too quickly.

Her peers at her over the top of the frames. "Actually look what?"

"You look good," she admits.

He smirks. "It brings out my scholarly charm, I'm sure."

“It really does,” she mumbles and she realises she’s given herself away.

His eyes widen and his face lights up as he processes the new information. "Well, well, well. Does Olivia Dunham like the type that dwells in the library?"

"Shouldn't you be helping Walter with something?” she says coolly as she tries to busy herself with the files on her blotter, trying to fight back the red on her cheeks.

He comes around to her side and sits on the edge of her desk, his smile triumphant from the knowledge that he knows one of her weaknesses. “Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easy.”

“Peter,” she growls in annoyance.

“Did I ever tell you I love a woman in uniform?” he muses.

She stands up, fidgitting and adjusting at the polyester once more. “Peter, I look like a  _Trekkie_ ,”

He nods as he stands up as well, his mischievous smile lighting up his whole face. "Even better."

"Weirdo," she breathes as he leans in far too close to her.

The edge of their glass frames bumped slightly as he nips at her earlobe, causing her to inhale sharply, her body moving instinctually closer.

"A weirdo for you, maybe."

"I really want to get out of this," she protests softly, her hand moving to the back of her neck to unzip the uniform.

His hand grabs her wrist, stopping her. “I’d prefer it if you'd keep it on.”

“We’ll only be able to get to third base then.”

He pauses for a moment, his brow furrowed and lips moued, then asks, “How do you define third base?”

Her mind quickly references her sophomore year of high school. “Touching skin.”

His brow creases further. “What’s second?”

“Touching over clothes.”

“How are we going to get to third if you’re wearing the uniform? Your math doesn’t add up, Dunham,” he declares dramatically.

“You need the uniform—“ she smiled coyly and began to unbuckle his belt, “but all I need is the glasses.” 


End file.
